ultima thule

I’m quite close to the end, and this is terrifying, actually. The terror consists, I think, in two things: that I won’t be able to write the end; or that I will, and it will be over, for better or for worse. (Maybe there’s a sub-terror to the 2nd one—that I’ll finish it and the end will be awful.) But of course, I comfort myself, it won’t be over—for there’s Revision; and if it’s awful, Revision will answer this, too, as well as it can.
I've realized that's there's a time problem with this last part I'm writing: that I envisioned the last scene happening as dusk is falling--the time when it's not day any longer, but not quite yet night. And I've already written myself into the dark in the scene just before the last scene. But this doesn't seem too impossible to fix, and I even think that I'll leave it for Revision.
Will the last scene say anything like what I want it to say? I have no idea. It's to have the dusk in it, and a white dog, some ashes and a china cup--which sounds quite poetic, and frankly I'd like to write a poem instead of a scene, because it feels as if it would be easier (apologies to my sister and all other poets everywhere: I really know it's not easier to write a poem).
Here is one of the white dogs who were my secret models (that's her at the top, too, in a more pensive, evening mood).